


Clint's theory

by LeMera (Agha)



Series: Phil's ring [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cheating, Infidelity, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Slash, sexy stuff happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2496071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agha/pseuds/LeMera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has a theory about the ring on Phil's hand. Ignoring everything else, he believes the theory, and goes for Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint's theory

**Author's Note:**

> Another pairing I've never done before! I know I should be working on my other WIP's, but I did this instead. So...Enjoy. (Unbeta'd)

So Clint had a theory.

The theory was about the ring on Coulson’s finger. The ring on the ring finger on his left hand to be more exact.

Clint had a theory that it wasn’t real.

Obviously, it existed. Clint could see it and had felt it at a few occasions when their fingers had bumped together accidentally (and if their hands bumped together _accidentally_ more often than was probably statistically possible, that was no one’s business but his). It was just that Clint didn’t believe it was a part of a set. Coulson wasn’t married.

If he sat down and looked through the evidence real close, he could find the signs. Coulson never spoke about his wife/husband, didn’t have any photos in his office, had never gotten phone calls or messages where he’d lower his voice and turn all mushy and lovey the way Sitwell did with his wife, no spouse tended to show up in medical when he was hurt (which, granted, didn’t happen that often and never at the scale of Clint and Natasha’s injuries), and last of all he’d never introduced a special one to Natasha and Clint, who were arguably his closest friends after Fury (Maria and Sitwell were up there somewhere as well but no way they were higher up than Clint and Tasha).

So Clint’s theory was that it wasn’t real. At least no anymore. Maybe once upon a time he was married and it ended, or maybe he just wore it to keep the junior agents’ paws off him.

That had to be it, didn’t it?

When he’d told Tasha about this theory she’d hit him in the head with a pillow and told him to just go ask Coulson already.

He’d left her alone before explaining to her that he _couldn’t_ ask. Because what if he did ask, and Coulson laughed at him and opened his locked drawer that needed fingerprint and two codes to open, and pulled up a picture of a smiling woman in a white dress? What if…?

 _No_. He wasn’t going to think about that.

He had a theory.

In hindsight, he realized the flaws of his theory. Actually, he’d realized the flaws of his theory long before hindsight kicked in. He’d just wanted to be right so bad.

Because being right meant that when he and Coulson were stuck in that safe house in Alaska ( _fucking_ Alaska, who the fuck set up a Hydra base in fucking Alaska?), and Coulson had almost frozen to death outside and was standing half naked with a bandage wrapped around a chest, Clint had every right to walk up to him and grab his shoulders and kiss him like there was no tomorrow.

This wasn’t something they did. Coulson had been his handler first, slowly earning Clint’s trust bit by bit. Then he’d become a friend. Then Natasha had been there and they’d been a team together, and he and Natasha had become friends too. Then Clint had tried to become more than friends with Natasha, and she had hit him over the head and told him to get back to her when he wasn’t in love with someone else. That was the moment he’d realized he wanted Coulson.

And once that happened, it was as if a damn had broken. He suddenly noticed all the little things Coulson did, like the twitch in his mouth when he was amused while trying to look angry, and the way he’d curl around a cup of coffee in the morning, and the way he’d fold his napkin into a swan if he was unsatisfied with the food. Clint found himself doing his outmost to please Coulson, not like before when he’d been nice and respectful for the sake of their friendship and handler-asset relationship, but things like filling in his paperwork perfectly and on time and making extra fancy shots when Coulson could see him. Natasha would roll her eyes and throw her knife as perfectly as he shot his bow, and he would scowl at her when she got just as much praise as he did.

Then the flirting began. And it was flirting, _that_ he was sure of. He and Coulson would flirt in the office, would flirt over the coms, and would flirt in Clint’s apartment while watching bad reality TV. Their hands would touch and linger, their smiles were special and private between the two of them, and their eyes would trace at the other’s body or lips whenever he thought the other wasn’t looking.

They were most definitely flirting, and Coulson was most definitely interested in Clint. There was no mistake about it. The only thing stopping Clint from jumping him in his office every day since Natasha had made him realize his feelings was that goddamn wedding ring. A part of him thought that that was the reason Coulson hadn’t done anything either, but he wanted to push that thought so far away it wouldn’t die of lack of sunlight.

Because Clint had a theory.

The op in Alaska had gone… _fine_. Natasha was knocked unconscious and sent away with the last helicopter, leaving only Clint and Coulson behind to be picked up at a later date from the safe house, and Clint wasn’t going to string a bow in a few weeks or so. It was Coulson who he’d worried about the most though.

Coulson who had gotten slashed straight over his chest, who’d been bleeding out on the freezing ground when Clint had been pulled inside by the Hydra agent. Coulson had survived only because Clint had found him after they were done with the bad guys, allowing the helicopter to leave without him, and dragged him to the safe house.

Obviously Coulson was much better now. He’d showered and slept and his wound was taken care off. He was standing in the hallway, shirtless, reaching for his shirt when Clint lost it for a second. His bandages were visible, and he’d been shivering slightly, and it’d suddenly occurred to Clint that he might’ve lost him for real this time. It was the first time that’d happened since he’d acknowledged his feelings and the realization his him like a bullet in the chest and he couldn’t _breathe_. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything other than walk up to Coulson and grab him and pull him as close as humanly possible, unwilling to ever let him go.

He kissed Coulson like his life depended on in, pulling him so close he could feel the cold radiating off his skin through his own shirt. He pulled his fingers through Coulson’s short hair and bit into his lower lip almost violently, angry and happy and accusing and apologizing all at the same time.

Coulson’s mouth opened beneath his and he could taste his tongue, could taste snow and metal and the chocolate bagel he’d eaten in the morning and he let out a keening noise from the back of his throat. He wanted this so bad it hurt.

Grabbing Coulson by the hips, he pulled him to the bedroom, never letting his lips go even as he went dizzy at the lack of air. It was Coulson who finally broke the kiss, panting heavily, and Clint’s lips quickly found themselves otherwise occupied with the stretch of skin spread out in front of him. Coulson’s hands found themselves underneath his shirt and he shivered at the cold, for some reason feeling more heated than cool at the touch. He pushed Coulson onto the bed and crawled over him, feeling the predatory need to cover the cold body with his own warm one.

“Barton,” Coulson whispered as Clint was sucking a mark onto his neck. “ _Clint_ ,” he tried again when nothing happened and that gave Clint pause. He’d never quite gotten over the wonder he felt when Coulson said his first name. More shivers ran down his spine, this time having nothing to do with the cold.

“Yes _Phil_?” he whispered into Coulson’s neck, and Coulson’s response to the sound of his own voice was to moan and lift his hips against Clint’s, making them both aware of the painful erections the other was sporting.

“Damn it Clint,” Coulson, _Phil_ , said through clenched teeth when Clint returned to leaving marks on his skin. He wanted Phil to be marked as _his_. Not the possibly non-existent, no _definitely_ non-existent, owner of the second half of the set of rings. “We can’t,” he gritted out.

Clint stopped and leaned on his hands to look down on Phil’s face. His eyes were blown and his lips swollen and Clint wanted him so bad at that moment he thought he might burst.

“Tell me to stop.” Clint thrust his hips down and his and Phil’s erections rubbed against each other through the fabric. Phil bit out a moan and closed his eyes. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” He punctuated his sentence with another thrust and Phil’s fingers dug into his skin so hard they were going to leave bruises.

He leaned his forehead against Phil’s and waited. One beat, two beats, three beats. Phil didn’t say anything and he grinned and kissed him again. Phil’s hand went to his hair, scraping his scalp and throwing his leg over Clint’s thigh to press them closer together.

There wasn’t any lube or condoms in the safe house (stocked with all you need _my ass_ ), so Clint moved his lips down Phil’s chest and stomach, licking over the happy trail down to his pants, and pulled his cock out and took it into his mouth.

Phil made noises Clint had never thought were possible from his handler. He keened and moaned and his fingers tightened in Clint’s hair. Clint breathed through his nose and took him in deeper, swallowing around him when the tip hit the back of his throat, and continued to swallow when Phil came down his throat with a shout.

Phil’s eyes were still shut tight when Clint kissed his way up to his lips again, but he didn’t protest when Clint licked his way back into his mouth.

Eventually his hands tightened around Clint again and he flipped them over on the bed, almost throwing them off it all together considering how small it was, and got even by sucking his cock back.

Phil’s blowjob was a bit sloppy and inexperienced, and he as in no way capable of swallowing Clint down the way he had without choking and having to pull back for air.

It was the best blowjob he’d had his entire life. He pulled Phil off when he thought he was near coming and kissed him again. Phil’s hands wrapped around him and stroke him to completion and he came whispering his name onto his lips.

After, he realized he still had his shirt on and that Phil’s bandages had turned red.

“Fuck,” he said, horrified, and got on his feet. His pants, which had only been pulled halfway down his thigh, tangled and he fell over. Phil let out a huff of laughter behind him while he cursed his way to the bathroom where he’d left the bandages and the first-aid kit. “Not funny,” he grumbled when he returned with the items. “You could’ve bled out.”

Phil looked relaxed, spread out on the bed like a king, with a fond smile on his lips. The sight made Clint’s heart skip a beat and he had to cough in order to cover whatever stupid words were about to leave his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Phil said reassuringly, although he allowed himself to be manhandled while Clint changed his bandages.

“We shouldn’t have done this while you were hurt,” he mumbled while his fingers were occupied. “Should’ve waited until we were back at base.” Phil went rigid under his touch and suddenly wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Clint, unsure what he’d done wrong, allowed the following silence to stretch until he finished and tucked Phil underneath the covers. When he made to leave though Phil grabbed his hand. “Clint,” he whispered, voice tired and dazed and Clint could _really_ get used to this.

“Yes Phil?”

Instead of responding Phil pulled him beneath the covers with him and snuggled up next to him. Clint didn’t protest.

This was nice.

Oh who was he kidding, this was fucking _amazing_.

He’d sleep with Natasha sometimes, but never post-orgasm and never in any way other than friendly. This was different on so many levels. This was a dream made real. This was hope. This was _Phil Coulson_ , his friend and handler and now his lover.

He ran his hand through Phil’s hair, down his back, and then up again, feeling how his chest moved when his breathing became deeper and he fell into a silent sleep.

 _I love you_ he thought fondly, before falling asleep.

*

The phone that had come with the house was ringing on the nightstand and he groaned.

“What,” he muttered into it.

“Extraction in thirty minutes,” a gruff answered before hanging up. He dropped the phone back on the nightstand and relaxed back into the bed.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up feeling this well rested and happy. He couldn’t even be bothered to care about his hurt arm. He’d have other things to occupy his hands with other than a bow and arrow from now on.

At least, so he hoped.

The phone rang again and he got the intense desire to smash it against a wall.

“Thirty minutes, I got it,” he grumbled into it. The person responding wasn’t the gruff voice he’d heard before, but the panicked voice of a woman.

“Phil?” she said, her voice shaking. “I know I’m not supposed to call the numbers you leave me before you have to go if it isn’t an emergency, but…” Her voice broke. “There’s been an emergency,” she sobbed out. “Honey? Can you hear me? Phil?”

“What is it?” Phil mumbled from next to him. He looked relaxed, his eyes sleepy and his hair slightly ruffled, purple marks blossoming over his neck and chest. He smiled up at Clint, who had been overtaken by the sudden urge to puke.

“Phil?” the woman in the phone sobbed. Clint took the phone away from his ear and held it out to Phil.

Phil looked at him, slightly confused, and took it warily.

“Coulson here,” he said, and suddenly he wasn’t _Phil_ anymore. He was Coulson, Agent of SHIELD.

Then the woman must’ve said something because suddenly Coulson was gone as well. He slipped away, replaced by a person Clint had never seen before.

“Tessa sweetheart, calm down,” the man said into the phone, a note of panic in his voice. Coulson never got panicked, neither did Phil, but apparently this new man did. “Tell me exactly what happened.” The man threw the covers off and slipped out of bed, trying his best to soothe and calm the woman down. “Honey, listen to me, I’m coming home in a few hours. I need you to hang up and call my sister, tell her what happened and wait for her to come and pick you up. Don’t try to drive or walk and don’t eat or drink anything. Can you do that for me? Tessa, love, please, can you do that for me?” He sounded agitated. His hands reached out to the nightstand, and he picked up something golden.

The wedding ring he’d taken off the night before, before taking that shower. Clint swallowed and realized who the man he was looking at was.

This wasn’t Coulson the Agent, or Phil the reliable friend and possible boyfriend. This was Tessa’s husband.

Clint’s mind was filled with all those things he hadn’t wanted to think before. He thought about all the so called evidence he’d had for his theory, and realized all the flaws in his theory.

Because Coulson probably did keep a picture of Tessa in the locked drawer. He never spoke of her because when he was at work he was Agent Coulson, even when he left work and hanged out with Natasha and Clint and became Phil his mind was still somehow stuck at work, associating the two assassins with his office. He’d never introduced her because he didn’t want to mix his private life with his work life. He never got phone calls where he’d lower his voice and turn all lovey and mushy because he didn’t like to do that in front of other people, and because it wasn’t his style, because not all husbands were like Sitwell. Tessa didn’t turn up in medical because she didn’t have the clearance for SHIELD medical, and it had never gotten so serious that she would get emergency clearance.

Most of all, Clint had to acknowledge that he hadn’t even tried to find out for real whether she existed or not. Had never asked questions, had never investigated, had never looked at who was Coulson’s next of kin even though he could easily have gotten the papers. He just hadn’t wanted to know.

“Barton,” Coulson said and broke him out of his miserable spiral. He was Agent Coulson now, and Clint was Barton, the asset. “Extraction in twenty-five.” His eyes had gone hard, his face covered by an unyielding mask.

Clint nodded silently and Coulson turned to leave, only hesitating slightly at the door.

“I’m sorry Clint,” he said, his voice really and truly apologetic. Clint really was going to puke now. Then he was Agent Coulson again and he was gone.


End file.
